If You Go Chasing Rabbits
by SisterGrimmErin
Summary: Go ask Jack; I think he knows.
1. The White Knight Is Talking Backwards

**Fandom**: Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

**Title:** If You Go Chasing Rabbits Part I: _The White Knight is Talking Backwards._

**Authors: **Neko Kuroban and Sister Grimm Erin.

**Disclaimer**: We relinquish all rights to the Percy Jackson characters and swear we have reaped no profits from our fun.

**Soundtrack**: The title is from a lyric of Go Ask Alice by _Jefferson Airplane, _which is about drug abuse with metaphors and not cute little Victorian girls. The song precedes the book, and I have a personal preference for the former.

**Summary**: Part I of a drabble series surrounding Jack, an original character from the Sightless universe, previously featured in _Hands Clean_ and _The Mad People_. Involves drugs, subtext, mentions of past abuse, and Seattle rain. PG-13 with undertones of R. Any kind of feedback is appreciated.

**If You Go Chasing Rabbits**

**By Neko Kuroban and Sister Grimm Erin**

**Part I:**

**_The White Knight Is Talking Backwards_**

Jonathan Perry Lyndon — known to friends as _Jack_; to the art world as simply _jpl_; to his family as _Jon_; to his probation officer and landlord as _Mr. Lyndon_ or street trash, depending on the day — slumped against the side of the weathered tenement building. He lifted a shaking, trembling hand to run it through his matted brown hair. He had just been evicted from the third apartment he had lived in over the course of...

He couldn't summon the figure. _What does it even matter?_

It had to have been less than a handful of weeks.

The artist gazed about. The street was slightly distorted to his blurred eyes: shadows stretched into wraith-like beings, light from the streetlamps reaching out like nicotine-stained fingers. Forgetting the rent was well and fine, he reasoned, but surely he should remember the day he had applied for an apartment.

He didn't.

The thought bothered him more than it would have otherwise. A shiver ran through him, and he hugged himself, palms rubbing over his bare biceps as if that simple action was enough to keep warm. He wore nothing more than a pair of flannel pajama pants and sheepskin-lined suede slippers.

_Well_, he mused. _It's better than being thrown out in the streets ass-naked._

It was summer, but it was Seattle, so it was — just his luck! — raining. Jack's green eyes were bloodshot and underscored by dark circles, which stood out against his skin. His temples throbbed painfully, and he was shivering.

A black Mercedes hurtled around the corner.

The decision was easy.

Jack threw himself in front of it.

With reflexes too acute to be human, the driver swung to the side, slamming on the brakes, and threw the car into park. The door opened, and a figure emerged from the sleek luxury vehicle. The door shut with enough force that Jack was surprised it was left without damage.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing?"

The light male voice was achingly familiar, and Jack — breathing in ragged gasps now — felt some of the tension drain from him as the person stepped into the light. The person to whom the silver-blonde hair and angelic features belonged had been his best friend, his lover, his ex-boyfriend and the first one to break his heart. As was common among his friends — or, rather, the people Jack used to consider his friends — these days, a combination of pity and barely concealed disgust overtook his face.

Jack dragged the back of his clammy hand across his brow. He sucked in a breath. "Kamikaze pilot training," he managed to respond.

Luke's left hand clenched into a fist at his side. Jack's stomach lurched as he noticed that his hand was now adorned by a simple wedding band.

"Congratulations," Jack told him, but he smirked in a fashion that changed the sentiment into anything but. "Mercedes CL6. It's not like you're flaunting your wealth or anything, of course."

"Get in the car," Luke said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "You'll pay for that as soon as you're not suicidal."

With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Jack opened the door and slid into the backseat, stretching his lanky frame out. He closed his eyes, listening as Luke got back in the vehicle. He opened his eyes to sweep his gaze over Luke. He could see Luke's profile in three-quarters view, lit up with soft light — half from the dashboard lights, half from the streetlamps and the lights from the passing cars.

Christ, but he was beautiful. Although his headache was agonizing, Jack's body stirred with need. He wanted to slip his hand into his lap to alleviate some of the pressure he could feel growing...but why do it alone when he could just as easily find someone to join in?

He reached out to trail one fingertip along the back of Luke's smooth neck and leaned forward, so that the warmth of his breath trailed over the shell of Luke's ear. "Hey," he murmured gently, fingers tracing a pattern in the warm skin.

Luke jerked away.

"No," he informed him. "Not just no, but _fuck no_," he added, his hands at ten and two on the steering wheel.

"You so sure about that, Castellan?" Jack's voice had been hoarse from disuse, but now it took on a seductive quality. He could remember — if vaguely — a time when merely adopting the husky tone had been enough to make Luke hard as a rock.

The stony silence told him that those days were long gone.

"I don't get it, Castellan. I honestly don't." Jack sounded like nothing so much as a petulant child. "What is it about her that makes you be like this?" The words were petty — and they had certainly been _intended_ to be petty — but he could not help the note of genuine curiosity.

"She's Thalia," Luke replied without a moment's hesitation. "If you got your act together in the Sandra department, you would never have needed to ask."

"Fuck you." Jack pressed his cheek against the cold glass of the window. The car was safe and dry, and the warmth of the heat Luke had turned on lulled him to the edge of sleep. Glancing out the window into the rain-dark night surprised him. They had left the somewhat seedy district his building had been in, and Jack recognized an Italian grocery and a Polish bakery, both of which seemed almost familiar. "Where are we headed?"

"Don't worry about it," Luke answered. Paused at a red light, he retrieved from his jacket a sleek, high-end mobile phone; Jack watched as he sent a discreet text message. "Just trust me."

Jack let himself relax, and he remained there, hovering on the edge of slumber, until Luke took a sharp turn that jostled him out of his rest. A garage door was quietly rising. Even in his altered state, Jack recognized a Corvette and a Lincoln SUV as they pulled in.

He yawned. "Where are we?"

Luke threw him an exasperated look. "Home. Be quiet when you go up the stairs."

The other demigod was too confused to question the reason behind these instructions. He merely followed his friend — because they _were_ friends, in spite of everything — up the staircase.

The door at the top opened before they arrived. A dark-haired woman stood on the landing, her blue eyes bright. She wore a midnight-blue kimono that hinted at, rather than displayed, her form, but it ended a few inches above her knees, showing off her legs.

"Absolutely not," she insisted before either of the young men had said a word.

Jack caught the smell of pizza and hot wings, and he knew without a doubt that there was at least beer in the refrigerator. The prospect seemed like a better meal than he had consumed in what seemed like months, and it would certainly be the best one he had had in what felt like weeks. He slipped past her, heading down the hallway before she could say anything to summon him back.

Luke offered his most charming smile.

It was no use. "He can't stay here," his everything, his partner, his best friend, his lover maintained, and she did not sound as if she was prepared to sway on this position.

"I'm not sure if we have another option," the blonde admitted. The guilt in his voice was enough that Thalia came down the stairs, wrapping one arm around his waist. She slipped the other around his neck. He placed his left hand on the small of her back.

"What do you mean?"

"He threw himself in front of my car," Luke whispered, his voice too low for mortal ears to register, and Thalia blew out a breath.

"Fine. But he stays away from the kids at all costs. I don't care if he fucking _dies_ of detox. He stays away from the alcohol stronger than the beer and wine coolers — and those only in _moderation_. Cigarettes are fine, but he doesn't snort, huff, swallow, or smoke anything else while he's in my house. Promise me," she said as she led the way upstairs.

"Promise."

"Swear to me," she repeated as they crossed the threshold.

In the softly lit hallway, Luke gazed down at her with endless gratitude. "Of course."

Thalia reached up to brush a few damp locks of loose golden hair from his face. "We'll put him in the attic," she said, taking one of his cool hands within both of hers. "It doesn't have windows," she added in an undertone.

Luke answered her suggestion with a kiss to her forehead.

When the time the pair entered the kitchen, Luke and Thalia found Jack with an open bottle of imported craft beer in one hand and a half-eaten slice of pizza in the other. He was leaning against the counter, watching the digital picture frame affixed to the stainless steel refrigerator as the images changed.

Although his expression was dark, his tone was light as he quipped, "Tell me the two of you never reproduced." He brandished his beer bottle at the display. "Hope those aren't yours."

Luke gave him an askance look. "Those are Percy and Annabeth's kids. We're their godparents."

"Ah!" Jack exclaimed, drinking deep from the bottle. "Sounds better than trusting y'all with twenty-four/seven care. Not by much."

"If this is an attempt to distract us so you can go find the keys to the liquor cabinet, there's no chance in hell," Thalia told him curtly. She spared a glance to the window, where the sun was already beginning to illuminate the rain and fog. It would be a gray morning.

It was that moment that Jack finally noticed her state of dress — or lack thereof. Even Luke, who was usually immaculate, was clad in rumpled designer jeans and a worn cotton T-shirt in addition to simple slip-on canvas shoes.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"2:47 in the morning," Thalia answered in what was the closest thing to a polite tone that she and Jack ever managed: civil but faintly irritated. "There's sheets in the hall closet upstairs. You've eaten the whole damn pizza, so don't bother cleaning up after yourself. Someone will get it in the morning. Whatever happens, do _not_ come downstairs without our express and unanimous permission, which you'll likely never get. I'm going to bed." She brushed her lips against Luke's cheek. It was not a possessive gesture — and yet it was. "I'll meet you there?"

Luke smiled in a soft, genuine way of which Jack did not approve. "Wait up for me?"

Thalia expressed her agreement with a swift kiss on the lips.

When she had left the room, Luke turned to face Jack. "If you wanted, you could choose to act as if you're not in kindergarten," he pointed out.

Jack did not acknowledge that with a response.

Luke half-shoved him toward the staircase that lead upstairs. "You first."

"What?" Jack asked, bitterly amused. "Afraid I'll watch your ass the whole way up?"

The other demigod considered this. "Yes."

"Talk about grade school..." Jack muttered beneath his breath, loud enough to ensure that Luke had heard him.


	2. And The Ones That Mother Gives You

**Fandom**: Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

**Title**: If You Go Chasing Rabbits Part III: Absolutely Nothing.

**Authors**: Neko Kuroban and Sister Grimm Erin.

**Author's Note:** Not a continuation of the previous scene. This is a drabble series, not a full-length fiction. It takes place around ten years before, and involves Jack's half-siblings.

It's mostly so you can meet Adam and Aspen- the campers who found out they were half-siblings, shrugged, carried on dating, broke up for a while, had four kids each while next-door neighbors, got dumped at the same time for cheating, and made a Brady Bunch.

(They're still humming "the demigod part doesn't count" under their breath.)

**Summary**: A drabble series surrounding Jack, an original character from the Sightless universe, previously featured in HANDS CLEAN and THE MAD PEOPLE. Involves drugs, mentions of incest, language, and Seattle rain. PG-13. All feedback is appreciated and returned.

**Theme Quote**: _"If a tree falls and no one's around to hear it, does it make a sound?"_

"You need to stop doing this, Jack."

Kelsey had always been the most forthright of his sisters, forever willing to take a chance and put herself on the line. Jack had once told her that he would pick her if he ever needed back up in a bar fight. Then, her response had been to laugh and to crack her knuckles. She had once worshipped him, he mused.

Now, however, she only sighed, looking down at the young man sprawled naked over the rumpled sheets, his lanky frame convulsing as it tried to sweat out last night's party drugs. He forces himself to roll over to peer up at her. Two identical pairs of green eyes met — his bloodshot, hers stubborn.

When exactly had his little sister become the more mature one?

Holly Eleanor Roderick looked like exactly what she was — a Seattle college student — in marine-blue skinny jeans and layered tank tops, bright yellow over white. She had arrived carrying a parasol; she had always burned easily, but her time in Washington had only heightened her sensitivity. She was studying dance at the Cornish College of the Arts, which he had initially teased her for without reserve. _Cornish? What — you couldn't get into a real fine arts school? I mean, at least AIS might let you do something other than teach. _She had giggled, tossed her hair, and scolded him playfully.

She was not giggling now. Her pale face was drawn and concerned as she laid her hand on her sister's shoulder. "He'll come around," she murmured, her voice just above a whisper.

Even so, her words seemed to echo in Jack's mind, slamming up against his closed eyelids.

_He'll come around. ___

comearound.

_._

"Fuck," he tried to say.

No one heard him.

Perhaps he had not managed to say anything at all.

Holly turned to Adam. "See if you can help calm Aspen down? She's being..." She trailed off, obviously faltering.

"Aspen is being Aspen?" Adam supplied, and Holly's features relaxed into something that might have been a smile.

"Yes," she said. "Exactly."

"I'll go see what I can do," Adam said. His reluctance was affected; he all but ran from the bedroom once he had reason to.

He probably couldn't wait to get away from me, Jack thought bleakly. He forced himself to roll over, facing away from the wall. He cracked one eye open to look up at at the self-possessed young man he hardly recognized. Oh. Awesome. When did Nick get here? I haven't seen him in forever.

"Hey, Nicky," Jack mumbled groggily. "You're here, too. Ev'rybody's here. 's like...like a party."

"Not quite," Nick corrected softly as he came closer. "We're all here because we're worried."

_Nick needs to chill the hell out and enjoy life,_ Jack decided. _Have a beer, blaze up, listen to some Marley. Shit. Maybe I can convince him to try the stuff I'm on. It'll keep him up, up, up, up, up - and then he'll crash, but then he can get UP! I want to be up like that again._

He felt like he was falling.

_Down._

_Downdowndown._

"Offer you a beer if I had one." Even his tongue felt lethargic. "How do I look?"

Nick's response probably would have been diplomatic and inane in equal parts, but Aspen marched into Jack's bedroom just at that moment. She looked like an avenging angel with her furious, defiant eyes and loose hair, styled to perfect imperfection. She wore a designer mini-dress in a shocking shade of rose-pink paired with textured tights and knee-high boots; another time, he would have wanted to capture the contrast between the pink cotton of her dress and the crocheted wool of her stockings and the tooled leather of her shoes. Now it just seemed garish. And loud.

_That is a fucking angry pink dress_. _It screams._ Draped over her arm were her cropped jacket and her Coach handbag was still thrown over one shoulder; Jack figured that she was probably afraid to set them down on any surface. _Probably for the best_, he decided.

"How do you look?" She repeated, her voice high and condescending. More so than normal, he noticed. "Like hell warmed over," she proclaimed, but the way her mouth and eyes tightened revealed that she was worried. "You've lost too much weight, and there's nothing in your kitchen but coffee."

_Nectar of the gods_, Jack wanted to say, but he couldn't quite bring himself to. Actually, all he wanted to do was sleep and get nice and low and then bring himself back up. _Why the fuck are they even here? Did I blank on the part where I invited them?_

Aspen stamped her foot. Growing up with two older brothers, he had once believed that girls only did that in the movies until he was a young teenager and discovered an entirely new family. And oh, _how_ he had been proven wrong!

"Jack!" Her voice came in a strangled scream. "There is a painting in your oven!"

Oh. That. Frankly, that has a perfectly rational explanation. I wanted it to dry faster. And forgot about it.

There were tears in her eyes now. "When was the last time you ate?"

_She's pretty when she cries_, Jack observed. _Maybe I'll paint her some time. Haven't done that in awhile._

Aspen moved to approach the side of Jack's bed, and Adam, who had been watching from the doorway, pounced, moving to grab her by the elbow before she could slap Jack — something she had attempted to do on more than one occasion. He pulled her to his chest. "Let's go to that Italian grocery down the street, okay?" He asked into the crown of her hair.

Aspen took a slow, deep breath as if to steady herself and then nodded.

Once the bedroom door had shut behind them, followed by the sound of the front door closing, Jack gave a sigh of relief. _Good. Bitchy McBitch is gone. _The rawness of the thought was testament to how far removed from his normal state he was. He would be the first to admit that Aspen could be a spoiled brat, even at twenty-three (shit, he realized, shitshitshit. That means I'm twenty-four. God, when did that happen?), but he would usually be the first to defend her.

Kelsey remained staring at the door for a moment after her older siblings had left...and then suddenly snapped back to Jack. He remembered — in the languid, distant way a man recalled his dreams — a time when he had told her that he would have believed that she had been born a fairy. Admittedly, the kind of fairy who could turn mortal men into donkeys if they looked at her the wrong way, but there you go.

Was this one of those situations that got worse before they got better? He had a sinking suspicion that it would be. She looked as if she was poised to say something.

"I know you weren't happy working for the studios and living in Anaheim. I know you don't want anything to do with animation and computer graphics after what Disney did with your art. I know you don't want someone else to have the rights to anything you do. I know you want to have the independence to do what you want to with your art and your time — but if you want to be a real artist, do it. Start selling your oil paintings. Call some galleries. Find a patron. Take commissions. Don't turn your creativity and talent into an excuse for everything that goes wrong in your life."

Kelsey's tone was neither condemning nor judgmental, which somehow made what she was saying worse. If she had tried to yell at him, if she had tried to make him feel guilty, if she had recoiled from him, if she had been anything but exasperated and concerned, it would have been much easier for him to tell her to go fuck herself.

He did so anyway.

He hoped she appreciated the struggle.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Aspen bite her lip. Tears were welling up in her eyes again. Adam had his arm around her, his jaw clenched in a way that revealed he was holding back emotion. Nick looked as if he might start crying; his face was pale, save for two high spots of color, and his gaze looked oddly bright in a way Jack had not seen in years, not since Byron's funeral. Holly was in the corner, her tall frame furled in a wooden chair Jack had found at the thrift store for three dollars and reupholstered and refinished in shades of metallic blue and silver. Her face was hidden in her hands, but he knew she wasn't crying — yet. Unlike Aspen, she was not pretty when she cried; she sobbed, loud and childish, and her skin was prone to turning scarlet with the force of her emotion.

_Oh, shit,_ he thought.

_Is it crying time? Maybe I'll join in. Curse of The Crying Boy and all. Bruno Amadio would be proud. Does that make us Gypsy Children? Screw that. I don't have the energy to cry. It's too hard._

_God. Why are they all so miserable? I've been on stuff so strong I haven't slept in three weeks, and now they're trying to keep me awake longer. They don't even have real problems._

"Jack?"

He glanced back to Kelsey. "Mmf?" He swallowed the dryness in his mouth and tried again. "Yeah?"

Kelsey's green eyes, identical to his, were neither wet nor red-rimmed; he had expected this. She never cried — it just wasn't in her — but the anger in her voice had been harsh. Though kind, she was reserved by nature; it was rare that she brought herself to care for people. When she was hurt, her instinctual reaction was to withdraw.

The fact that she lashed out at him now was the way that he knew she genuinely loved him.

"Fuck you." Her words were slow and deliberate. "One of these days, you're going to want to stop making yourself so miserable. When that day finally comes, I'll be there — but I'll be waiting to laugh in your face."

Kelsey did not slam the door behind her, but the soft click left a hollow, aching sense of loss in the air. Aspen and Adam took their leave without fanfare; holding hands, they fell into step behind her. Distantly, Jack heard the front door close behind them. Holly, normally always the one to try to smooth tension over, got to her feet slowly, looking at Jack. There was no pity in her face.

"I love you almost as much as she does," Holly told him. There was no question about whom she spoke; somehow, Kelsey's presence — or, rather, her sudden lack thereof — lingered in the room. "But I...I can't be a party in all of this. I can't watch you do this to yourself anymore."

With mincing, clumsy steps, her usual grace gone, she, too, left.

Nick and Jack were alone.

There was absolutely nothing Jack wanted to say to him.

He was certain Nick was the same; they had always been somewhat similar in that regard. He could usually guess what thoughts were running through Nick's head, although no one had ever been able to know Jack's. (_Maybe a few people,_ he admitted to himself. He was forced to concede two people, both of whom he had loved in some way. _On occasion_.) Nick did not enjoy cluttering the space with clumsy words of emotions; Jack did not like the idea of verbalizing how he felt.

Jack was taken aback when Nick regarded him coolly and found his words.

"You know where to find us, Lyndon." Nick spoke as if he was addressing a stranger. Maybe he was. "Aspen and Adam left the groceries on your counter."

And Jack was alone.

It did not feel nearly as good as he had imagined it would.

He closed his eyes, listening to the white noise that crept in. A siren wailed in the distance. Aspen's new car purred as she pulled away. The couple next door were having sex. Holly's engine tick, tick, ticking; it was long overdue for a repair. The half-hot hippy girl downstairs was practicing her drums while someone else played bass; even lying in bed, Jack could feel the beat of it echoing in the floor. Outside, Nick's truck sprang to life.

His house in Anaheim had been a suburban monstrosity — an A-frame rancher, perfect starter home, lots of natural light, three bedrooms, two and a half bathrooms, fenced in backyard with a hot tub on the patio and room enough for a garden. The girl he had been dating at the time — engaged to, he reminded himself; at one point, he had made the mistake of thinking that he wanted to marry her — had loved it.

Jessica was an artist he had worked with, and maybe his fifth biggest mistake. Her hair had been almost the right shade of red, but it was the wrong texture, silky and manageable. Her eyes were the wrong color, honey-brown rather than amber, which he realized when it did not take him half an hour to mix the right hue of paint. She had been thrilled by the idea of shopping for patio furniture and excited about the idea to paint a mural in every room of the house. All that time spent together had probably been the final nail in the coffin for their relationship, every hour spent working together, painting together, or looking at padded chaises and striped umbrellas and durable glass tables that could resist the elements.

_Or it could be the fact that I didn't feel like I could stand with her and see forever._

Looking back, he had to admit the house had been bought as an insult more than anything, but he wasn't sure who it was directed to. His father? His stepmother? Their children who Jack had been raised to call his brothers? His biological mother? His siblings by her? The people he used to think of as his friends? The girl he used to love, the woman he still loved, with all of her expectations and her new husband who wanted to give her everything she thought she wanted?

Everyone he had alienated with his drugs.

_God_, Jack thought, disgusted. _That house was on a fucking cul-de-sac. It had curb appeal. We bought a formal dining room set. With a china hutch. Thank God we broke up._

The couple next door were enjoying themselves entirely too much.

He groaned. _But at least the walls weren't made out of vellum. I do not need to know that he likes her to call him that in bed. They're sixty! Why are they doing that?_

Jack sat up. Dizziness overwhelmed him, but he fought it off. He found a half-finished joint in the ashtray on his nightstand and lit a match; he believed marijuana was an acceptable alternative to tobacco, and he treated it as such.

He stumbled out of his bedroom. Crumpled sheets of paper blanketed the floor; drifts covered every piece of furniture. The rest of his apartment felt foreign to him. When was the last time he had traveled past those four walls? His recent memory could not remember a time when he wasn't a shivering, sweating wreck on his bed, except maybe the days when he was a shivering, sweating wreck on the couch.

His apartment was a void. It wasn't even a hellhole; it was just a blank. He did not have much in the way of furniture. When he and Jessica had painted over the half-finished murals, covering a fledgling world of fantasy with a fresh coat of eggshell-colored paint, and sold the house, he had offered to let her keep everything — the pots and pans in the kitchen, the matching sofa and love seat, the Missionary style end tables, the five-piece dining room set, the traditional bedroom furniture his mother would have admired.

His Seattle apartment was cheap and economical, but it was a far cry from the worst places he had ever been (or would ever be): vinyl linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom, wall-to-wall carpet everywhere else; graying white paint in every room. His bedroom was the only room that looked as if it was inhabited. The only items in the small living room was a stack of canvases, the flat-screen TV and video game console he had bought himself the day he quit his job with Disney, a box of DVDs, and an ugly plaid couch that he had 'saved' from being donated to charity.

Naked, he padded into the kitchen, but it was similarly empty, save for the dishes that had been in the sink since the day he moved in six months ago. The bags of groceries Aspen and Adam had purchased sat in a neat row along the counter: meats, cheeses, vegetables, dried and fresh pasta, sauces, oils, fresh bread. There was a receipt beside it; someone — he suspected Adam, but it might well have been Aspen — had paid his rent for the month.

For an instant, he wanted life, laughter, joy, sorrow — anything but this lifeless nowhere.

He ran stock in his head and swore when he realized he was out of paint — or any kind of materials. He had sold everything but his drawing charcoals to keep the gnawing need at bay. _Shit_, he thought to himself. _Maybe they were right._

The thought enraged him — but it was better than the exhaustion and the apathy.

Reaching behind himself, he grabbed the first thing his hand touched — a glass jar filled with pasta sauce. Jack hurled it across the room at the far wall, where it exploded in a spray of shattered glass and pale red liquid. His heart was racing, hammering in his chest, and he imagined that he could feel blood pumping to his fingertips, which were, for the first time in weeks, not numb and trembling with the bitter cold only he could feel.

If he squinted, the stain on the wall looked almost like a weeping willow.

_Well_, Jack thought, scrubbing a hand through his hair, amused in spite of himself. _I guess it's a start._


End file.
